Paddy's Not Very Good Day
by Random Ruth
Summary: The continuing adventures of Reid and Imelda his pet turkey. There's been a murder at an Irish pub, but no one at the station is willing to babysit a turkey. So it's time for Imelda's first crime scene! One-shot.


**Author's Note:** Reading the "The Christmas Spirit" and "The Love Buggy" is not essential for this to make sense, but you might as well since they all follow after each other. I should probably call them the Turkey!verse or something. Anyway, this was lots of fun to write and I hope you enjoy it! :)

* * *

**Paddy's Not Very Good Day**

* * *

"Sir!" Drake called as he hurried to Reid's office. He pushed the door open with a bang only to find that Reid and Imelda the turkey were deeply engrossed in a game of chess.

Reid moved a chess piece across the board. "Checkmate, I think you'll find," he told the bird smugly.

Annoyed, Imelda pecked at one of her few remaining pawns. "Gobble, gobble," she grumbled.

"I, er..." stuttered Drake, quite unsure of what to say all of a sudden.

"Yes, Drake?" Reid prompted as he gathered the chess pieces into a bag and folded the board up.

He cleared his throat. "Well, er, there's been a murder, sir," Drake told him.

"Oh," Reid said, shoving his chess set into one of the drawers in his desk, "where?"

"Just outside one of the Irish pubs, sir. A beating, so I'm told."

"Then fetch us a cab – we are on the case!" announced Reid, flinging on his coat.

"What about the tur—Imelda, sir?" Drake asked, glancing at the bird as it jumped off Reid's desk, landing awkwardly. She shook herself, dislodging a feather.

Reid looked at Imelda as if only just noticing her presence. "I suppose she may come with us, since I'm most certain no one in the station is willing to babysit for me," he answered.

Drake fetched his coat and followed Reid and Imelda out of the station.

* * *

They called round at Long Susan's to pick Jackson up. Three men and a turkey were crammed into the tiny cab like sardines in a tin. The cab rattled over the cobbles, the horse's hooves clip-clopping in a trot. These two things did little to improve Jackson's hangover, and the third...

"What the hell is the bird doing here, Reid?" he snapped.

Reid's hands clamped over Imelda's ears, his mouth slack with shock. "Imelda's on her way to visit her first crime scene," he said when he'd found his voice again. "There's no need for rudeness, Captain."

"You'd better apologise to Imelda," Drake added, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

Jackson could have strangled the sergeant then and there – his hands twitched on his lap – but at that point one wheel went over a stone and the whole cab shook. He decided it was best just to go with it. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Gobble, gobble," said Imelda.

"She accepts your apology," Reid translated.

"I feel so much better for that," Jackson sarcastically muttered. He could already feel his headache becoming worse.

* * *

When they arrived at the scene a few uniformed PCs were keeping watch over the dead man. Already the photographer Reid had requested had arrived and he was setting up his camera.

Jackson knelt over the portly man's body. His hat was sitting in a puddle of dried blood by his head. Jackson moved out of the way at the photographer's call of "Clear, please!"

There was a blinding flash, after which Jackson went back to examining the body as Drake, Reid and Imelda watched. "Death by the head wound I'd say," Jackson said. "He's lost two, three pints of blood." He parted at the grey hair around the wound, revealing it clearly to the watching detectives. "See here? Looks like... rust, maybe?" He pointed at the rust red stains surrounding the wound. "You might be looking for a metal bar."

"Clear, please!" the photographer called again. Jackson moved away, only this time Reid scooped up Imelda and jumped in-between the camera and the corpse, giving a thumbs up sign with his free hand.

"Say 'cheese'!" said Reid.

"Gobble, gobble," Imelda obliged.

The photographer had the photo taken before he realised what had happened. He looked confused but decided not to comment on it.

"I fancied a souvenir," Reid explained to his colleagues. "It's Imelda's first crime scene after all."

Jackson rolled his eyes in a long-suffering fashion. "I'll arrange for Paddy Doherty to be taken to the station, then. I found this in his jacket." He handed the wallet to Drake.

"Anyone still in the bar?" Reid asked one of the PCs.

"Yes, sir."

Reid turned to Drake. "Come along, then."

Reid held the pub's door open, Drake slightly affronted when Imelda proudly trotted in before him with her head held high. There were a few punters in at this time of morning but Reid made a bee-line for the portly man standing behind the bar.

Reid casually leaned over the bar, a slight nod of his head telling Drake where to look. A rusted metal rod had been hastily shoved in behind the waste bin, and even in this poor light Drake was sure he could see the red hue to the tip.

The barkeeper rubbed some sweat off his forehead, leaving a rusty stain behind.

"Could we perhaps have a word in private?" Reid asked him.

* * *

They sat at a table in a back room, Reid on one side and Billy Shane on the other. Reid jabbed his finger at Billy. "It was you, wasn't it? You killed Mr Doherty."

"We saw the metal rod concealed behind the bar," Drake said from where was stood in a corner of the room with his arms folded. "An' you could give your face a scrub."

Billy pulled out a hanky and wiped his face, taking no notice of the transferred stain.

"We know it was you," Reid said.

"It wasn't me!" Billy shouted irritably in his thick Irish accent.

"Was!"

"Wasn't!"

"Was!"

"Wasn't!"

Both parties were adamant, and it was obvious no one was going to win this argument without resorting to desperate measures. Reid calmly lifted Imelda onto the table.

Billy chuckled, his chins wobbling. "What's this then? Me lunch?"

For a moment Reid himself looked absolutely murderous; Drake tensed, ready to intervene. Instead Reid took a deep breath and said levelly, "This turkey is no ordinary turkey. It's an Indian Turkey of Interrogation, expertly trained to eat a whole curry without a single sip of water and to peck confessions out of criminals."

"Gobble, gobble," Imelda said warningly, her wattle quivering with malice.

Billy gulped.

Reid leaned forwards over the table. "So what's it going to be – a confession, or a Indian Turkey of Interrogation-induced confession? There are no other options."

Sweat started to trickle down Billy's face as he stared into Imelda's eyes. "He – he was sleepin' with me wife!" he blurted out. "I couldn't have him get away wi' it!"

"You're under arrest," Drake said, moving to secure the man's wrists in handcuffs.

"He was a poor criminal," sighed Reid once Drake and Billy were gone. "Hopefully your next case will be more interesting." He scratched Imelda's wattle.

"Gobble, gobble," she said.

* * *

The next time Reid had Drake and Jackson over for tea and biscuits, Reid was keen to point out the new photograph on the mantelpiece. It was the photo from Imelda's first crime scene. Reid was clearly portrayed holding Imelda, the corpse of Paddy Doherty making a rather unattractive background. He'd even written 'Imelda's first crime scene' in one corner of the photo.

While Drake and Jackson were staring at the photograph, Imelda came into the room to peck at biscuit crumbs.

"Gobble, gobble," said Imelda, which, roughly translated, means 'happy Saint Patrick's Day!'

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
